shallow, gnarled roots
by Fruityloo
Summary: "You've given me a babysitter," Napoleon says, half-accusation that he does little to disguise, "I offer you the perfect spy," he touches a hand to his chest, "And you assign him a babysitter. He's Russian!" "Mr. Solo, you are a con, not a spy. You're not even human."
1. we keep the scars we're born with

The cafe Sanders brings Napoleon to is situated by a river, running water babbling and bouncing off the tiled floor like a message: We know your weaknesses, vampire. Best you know your place. Napoleon wouldn't share the fact that running water only gave him goosebumps, providing he was well fed. (He was always well fed, not a man to deny his needs, not even a man who denies his wants.) Napoleon glances around the table, cataloguing Sanders' measured sips of coffee, the kind of swallows Napoleon might take to disguise his wandering eyes. Sanders wouldn't make a very good spy. But he didn't need to. That's why Napoleon was here. And the blond half-stranger.

"You've given me a babysitter," Napoleon says, half-accusation that he does little to disguise, "I offer you the perfect spy," he touches a hand to his chest, "And you assign him a babysitter. He's Russian!"

"Mr. Solo, you are a con, not a spy. You're not even human."

Con men and spies are the same breed working under different banners. Napoleon doesn't say this. He doubts either man at the table will agree. "You don't trust me," it's not an accusation. Napoleon never expected trust, or even wanted it. But he did not expect the American government, champions of deliberate short-sightedness and blindness, who give Nazi scientists cozy suburb homes and a personal guard, to look a gift-horse in the mouth. "You trust me less than the Russians. I'm flattered."

Sanders sets down his coffee cup, "Given the... uniqueness of your skillset, we thought it pertinent to find a partner familiar with the challenges you might pose. Outside government lines."

The half-stranger sits up straighter.

"No, I did my homework, thank you. Illya Kuryakin is a KGB-bred piece of work. If I did not know better I would call him inhuman."

"KGB, yes, would be foolish to deny this," Illya says, hands folding on the table, white-knuckled, "Formerly, vampire hunter. Are very few spies with my skillset. No other spies with my background," he smiles, thin and bloodless. Napoleon might have commented on his utter lack of nuance, but he is still tripping over Illya's admission.

Formerly, vampire hunter.

Intriguing.

Napoleon looks at Illya with a different set of eyes, not a spy or con man but a vampire. Much of his skin is covered - typical hunter, paranoid about bare skin, as if vampires could tear through flesh with bare teeth but not wool and cotton. But for a vampire hunter, few of his scars were vampire-made.

(Former hunter, but Napoleon knows better than to believe this. No hunter truly left the profession. Like being incapable of un-seeing the solution to an optical illusion once you found it. You could not un-know how to kill a vampire)

Vampire claws possessed a certain curve, and when healed, the scars left behind were like long crescents. Napoleon knows this from experience. Bites were even easier to distinguish, twin scars raised and white, often near pulsepoint. Bites always healed this way. Napoleon knows this from experience, too.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, defensive wounds make a map of Illya's skin, all fine-edged cuts. A scar in the crook of his elbow came from a bowie knife; the line encircling his wrist had edges that blurred into skin, a violet shade unique to chafing rope. A respectable spy would take better care to avoid such scarring.

Napoleon catalogued each one and stored it for later examination. He was an expert in reading the human body, its subtle shifts of posture more honest than words. But he read it in other ways, too, and scars were a perfect history book, unbiased.

He knows this: we keep the scars we're born with. Scars a vampire wore told histories more thorough than most. Some vampires possessed the pockmarked skin of disease, others the sickly waist of famine. Too many vampires walk on limbs thinner than what's healthy, bodies trapped in the state of their turning. Hunger made one desperate, vampire or no, and humans would do anything for survival. Napoleon knows this best of all. He wore bruises on his chest, below clavicle, above pulsepoint; accessories left behind by the pieces of himself he sold for food. They made cover stories annoying to pull together, barring he posed as an expensive whore. But that was a little on the money, wasn't it?

They say acting is about telling the truth. Napoleon is a good spy. Lousy vampire, but a good spy, and he always told the truth.

"I hear they take hunter-boys from their parents. Is that true?"

Illya follows his gaze to forearm and his face is a perfect mask. It's the mask that gives him away, too carefully constructed, too intentional. Anger hid in the bloodless line of his lips, regret in the trapped flex of tendon, the way his arm almost slips off the table. Not a very good actor.

"This is true."

Napoleon hums. "Seems we have something in common, then."

It's so out of place that Illya's mask drops into a furrowed brow. Napoleon offers no explanation.

* * *

Italy again. It feels too soon since their last visit, the city too peaceful, people too welcoming. Illya spends his time in the company of spies and government men, their greetings always sharp knives with velvet handles, and they spoke truths only between the lines.

The speaker set up beside him crackles, not words but the muddled song of singing crickets, echoed back just outside their hotel window. The cacophony and summer heat make it difficult to focus on the chessboard in front of him. He's held the same black rook between forefinger and thumb for the past twenty minutes, toying with moves but not committing. A breeze carries something cloyingly floral into the room, but does little to stir the air.

Footfalls on tile direct his attention upward, Napoleon's steps so quiet that another man might have missed them. Illya missed little. He does not miss the startled look in Napoleon's eye, though elects not to comment on it. "Napoleon."

"I didn't expect you to be awake," Napoleon says as he passes his chair to the other side of the room. Yet there's no surprise in his voice, not even feigned surprise. Just tired. The cabinet creaks open and Illya fixes his eyes on the chessboard in front of him, twisting black rook between forefinger and thumb once more.

"I didn't know vampires slept," he places the rook, takes white knight and spins the board. "One of us has to monitor the radio." A notebook lay beside his board, last entry nearly three hours ago.

"All's quiet on the espionage front," glass clinks behind him and somewhere to his left as Napoleon pours himself a drink. Illya doubted vampires even could get drunk, but Napoleon seemed the kind of man who might pretend regardless.

Napoleon sits down across from him, glass filled with ice and something brown. Bourbon, probably. He's suitless in a white cotton undershirt. There's no reason this should surprise him, and yet he seems a different man without the finery to hide behind, smaller and more human.

"We can, by the way."

"Can what?" he shifts a pawn without much considering the move and spins his board again.

"Sleep."

Illya grunts in response and turns focus back to his game, ear on the radio. Napoleon is utterly still across from him, moving only to refill his glass. Otherwise he stared, eyes locked on the board but never moving when Illya shifts a piece. Seeing, but not watching. The room is muggy with Italian summer air. It condenses on Napoleon's glass and Illya's brow. He pretends it is the air that makes Napoleon's shirt cling to him, but he wears the far-away stare of a man trapped in his head.

"You look like hell."

"Charmer."

Radio static hovers around them, air so thick he could grab it with bare hands. Napoleon drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, muscles past relaxed and into something deeper, almost concerning in its deliberate carelessness. His clavicle glints purple-blue highlighted with sweat, marks as far down his chest as the white cotton allows him to see.

Where did he even find the time?

"Those bruises," he looks emphatically to where Napoleon's nightshirt has slipped down and to the side, displaying purple clavicle. It did not take a genius to recognize hickies, but Illya would remain professional even where Napoleon did not. To his credit, Napoleon's body goes absolutely stiff, the relaxed curve of his neck freezing into something tight and square.

"See something interesting?" It's a challenge, though Illya cannot fathom why.

"Not interested that way. Curiosity." Napoleon's body eases again, falling into the guarded ease Napoleon always carries himself with, comfortable but coiled to strike. Illya knows this language well, though only from the outside. Napoleon uses it with marks, never towards him. It's strange. Disconcerting. Illya feels he's pressed somewhere he was not meant to press, as though his observations are like blunt thumbs into tender skin. "Those bruises, they do not fade like the others. Why?"

Napoleon continues staring at the ceiling, silence tightening around them. "Call them battle scars," Napoleon's voice is sing-song and lecherous in a way that clashes against the cry of crickets.

 _Lie._ What fool spy lied to another spy? But this was not a conversation between spies, Illya realizes with a frown. It's been a long time since anyone spoke to him as a man and not a chess game's pawn.

"I'm going to bed." Illya stands, ignores the way Napoleon flinches. Whatever demons he had in dreams, Illya wasn't one of them.

"G'night, Peril," there's a slur to his voice, something lilting but too convenient. Not drunk, but desperately wishing to be.

"Goodnight, Cowboy."

* * *

"Your _indiscretions_ are a danger to the operation."

Napoleon focuses on adjusting his cufflinks and does not look up. Still, when he speaks, he's smiling his charlatan's smile. "I'll only be a few hours. How much damage can I do in an hour?"

"It only takes one slip to blow a cover."

He's got a point. Still, "Starving myself would be even more dangerous, you know. Glowing red eyes are a touch hard to miss." Illya may be acting as a spy, not a hunter, but surely he knew this.

"How American."

Napoleon laughs, shaping confusion into mocking, "We're not all Americans. That's preposterous." The first vampires Napoleon knew were french aristocrats. His sire brought him to the new world, but that didn't make him American. An opportunist. The colonies had little in the way of oversight; tired militia, judges who spent their sundays as priests. It's here Napoleon learned to con rich slavers from their purses and then their blood. A poor man's skill, he took their clothes and sought harder prey, richer prey, people who deserved it. Hardly American.

"You are all _capitalists_."

He crosses his arms, "Reasoning?"

"Steal from poor so you can live, destroy their little lives because you are far more _worthy_ of life. Is this not how capitalism works? Someone always gets short end of the stick."

"I don't prey on the poor." They don't deserve it

"This is true. Only vampires who don't want to be caught hunt the poor. You prey on American elite and draw attention to yourself. Your vanity is why I'm here."

 _Wrong!_ It catches in his throat, hardens the line of his jaw, _I was one of them_. He says nothing. It's not a tale for any hunter to know.

"I'm leaving." He might spend more time in the mirror, fixing cufflinks and slicking hair, but the ritual of it all lost its pleasure tonight.

"You're staying."

Napoleon doesn't even turn around. "Why, Peril, I have some capitalism to do. If I stay I'll be late for my appointment with that nice young heiress from this morning."

"A gift is different."

Against his better judgement, Napoleon drops his hand from the doorknob and turns, shoulders a sinuous curved line, posture open and face schooled into a mask of passing curiosity to hide the gears spinning to make sense of this. "A gift." It should be a question. It's not.

"Don't play at oblivious. It doesn't suit you."

He sighs, and the feigned confusion rushes from his lips. In its place Napoleon forces something sharp, icicles formed to whisper-fine points. "I know stupidity suits you, but this seems reckless even for you, doesn't it?"

Take it back.

"I'm being pragmatic," offered like an explanation, a taunt. _Unlike you._ Napoleon hears only excuse.

"You mean you're making an unnecessary risk." He doesn't like how much the sharpness feels like an act. Lying, all about telling the truth. He's vulnerable.

Illya barks a laugh, "Not a risk. I can throw you halfway across this room." Like he thinks that's the problem. Like Napoleon doesn't know Illya's killed vampires before.

He tilts his head, and spends no effort making the movements appear human. There's grace, but sharpness, followed by a stillness that speaks of predator. _Have you forgotten what I am_.

"Out of… curiosity. Tell me, have you been bitten by a vampire before?" Napoleon knows the answer. Hopes he does, or he'd have to drastically re-assess his opinion of Illya.

Illya hardly spares a blink at Napoleon's shift in movement. His eyes jerk left, following, cataloging, determining if the gesture implied danger. "They don't get close enough."

 _Thought so._ Napoleon shapes the flood of relief into disappointment, an emotion Illya wouldn't question. His sigh becomes a huff, and the flash of irritation in Illya's eyes shows he believes the lie.

Illya wouldn't offer if he knew the truth of it.

"Like I said. I'm leaving." Napoleon turns.

Half a second later, his skull meets the door. Air pushes from his lungs in a cough. Balance thrown, ears ringing. "There a reason you've just attacked me, Peril?"

"I'm trying to stop you from making stupid decisions."

Napoleon shoves, and to his credit Illya only stumbles.

"Funny, I'm trying to do the same."

Another lunge. Illya's body is a single flat plane, fists clasped and straining against the self-imposed leash. "You think I want your fangs anywhere _near_ -"

This was getting ridiculous.

"Fine," Napoleon doesn't want to hear the rest of that sentence. He advances, undoing the buttons of his suit jacket and loosening tie. Illya wanted to push this? Fine. He would learn what a vampire's bit felt like. He would know the sensation of venom crawling through his veins, dumbing his thoughts, making him pliant, the things Napoleon woke up sweating for.

He drapes his jacket over a chair and continues his advance. The blade of his expression wasn't an act this time, and Illya knew it. Napoleon watched him shudder, anticipatory, left leg shaking and right leg tensed. Trying not to back away. So concerned with not appearing weak. Stupid Russian. Foolish, stubborn man.

"Take off your shirt," he says casually. The knife of his expression is held between his teeth, glinting with his words.

"I said _gift_. Don't order me like I'm one of your marks."

He rolls his eyes. So easily offended. "If you want a mess, be my guest. Remember that suit you're wearing is on the UNCLE's pocket. We bloody enough clothes as it is, don't you think?"

Illya lets out a long breath through his nose, eyes shutting. The air around them is positively tropical, salty-hot, briny in a way that stung. The sea waves crashing into him spoke only of blood and impending storm.

Napoleon rounds the couch and sits. "Let's do this properly, then." He gestures to the empty cushion beside him.

To his surprise, Illya sits. He leaves as much space between them as the couch reasonably allowed, but he sat. He breathes through his nose and out through the mouth, a steady ten count. His lips mouthed numbers on each inhale,

 _Desit'._ His fists unclench.

 _Devit'._ His jaw slackens.

 _Vosim'._ Napoleon's breath catches.

He says nothing, watches until the last number drops and Illya's eyes open. And he doesn't comment, even though the sarcastic bite nips at the backs of his teeth.

 _He's doing you a favor. Don't antagonize, for once in your life._ Instead he studies Illya, one arm lounging on the back of the couch, but his fingers drum a rhythm of nerves. Poor acting. Poor form. It revealed too much. Illya says nothing.

He says, "Listen to me. Don't flinch. First-timers always flinch, but I can't get my teeth out that fast. You'll only make a mess."

"I'm not an idiot," Illya says, but there's no teeth on the bite his words carry. He's gone quiet and receptive, something earnest in the way he holds himself, carefully open. Napoleon expected Illya's terribly mask, the thing he wore when trying to feel nothing. He said it himself: this was pragmatic. Part of the job. But the man beside him didn't carry himself like a professional. Not even a professional bad at acting.

"I didn't mean to imply you are," his tone approaches apologetic, but there's question in it, too. A tilt of his head that speaks more of curiosity than the appropriate concern. "Tap twice if you want me to stop."

"Go too far and I'll throw you myself."

Don't make promises you can't keep.

Napoleon leans in, finding the pulse on Illya's neck. He stares, scenting the air. It's salt, and sweat, anticipation. No fear. "Right," he says, but this was never part of the question. Napoleon knows he can throw him.

The question: whether or not Illya will want him to stop.

Illya hardly reacts to the sudden sting; a catch of breath and nothing more. He's had worse. They both know he's had worse. His muscles here are pale, bloodless with tension. It flows at a mere trickle. Napoleon digs in harder, widening the wounds. Illya grunts, hand tightening over Napoleon's forearm with bruising force, but he says nothing of the pain. He tightens his mouth and takes it.

Napoleon pictures this:

Venom encircling open wounds, crawling quietly inside, beckoning the blood to flow. Muscles relax at Napoleon's command. He shuts his eyes and swallows, tries to loose himself.

Illya's grip slackens into a caress. The slow march of venom reaches his nervous system, slows him to a crawl. Breath sighs past his lips in something that might be a word. Napoleon imagines an accusation, but it's slurred beyond meaning. The body beneath him shudders, caress dropping to the cushion. Only one tap. Next his head falls back, eyes open and seeing but vacant, watching the ceiling with what might pass for casual interest if not for the way his lashes flutter. Napoleon knew the look well. Illya was floating, detached from his body in a way Napoleon envied and sometimes still craved. Addicts don't cease being addicts. They stop practicing. They recover. But once an addict, it follows you always. Napoleon wants in a way that forces his mouth wider.

It shouldn't be like this.

Napoleon removes his teeth, lacking grace, but with as much care as he can muster. Tongue ghosts over the edges of Illya's wounds. He wipes away what he can, and when Napoleon leans away, he does nothing to mask the shaking of his hands. He can't twist it into some other emotion when he doesn't know what he's feeling to start with. He can't twist the truth when he can't discern the lies. Acting requires insight, awareness. In this moment he lacks both.

"Thanks for that, Peril," his voice shakes. It seems pointless to hide it now, so he doesn't. The brocade square is rough on his lips after the heat of smooth skin, but he cleans his mouth regardless. Hides evidence of the glutton inside him. It's usually not this difficult. He's usually not shaking this hard.

He wipes Illya's neck with even greater care. To him the fabric must be rough to the point of pain, like sandpaper. They were used to pain, the two of them, but Napoleon wished to avoid it where he could. The only reaction is a flicker of eyes: Illya, watching him. It's all he can do for now, paralyzed in place.

How much does he process? How much is he seeing, really? Napoleon feels as though Illya's somehow slipped the knife from his teeth and now holds it to his neck. Napoleon drops the handkerchief in Illya's lap. His eyes slip back shut, tired.

"You'll be able to move again in an hour or so."

A short grunt, edged with annoyance. A complaint, so anti-climatic that Napoleon cannot help but laugh.

It's good to know Illya's not very far gone. Napoleon picks up his jacket and throws it over his arm, picture of debauched poise missing its pocket square. "Don't blame me," he holds up his hands in mock surrender, hammering the guilt into something sardonic and hard. It's shoddy craftsmanship, no nuance, but it's probably what Illya expects from him. He won't look too closely. "Pragmatism, my good comrade." Napoleon takes the knife back into his teeth, but it grazes his lips in a ways it hadn't before.

The door shuts quietly behind him.

* * *

"I was seventeen," Napoleon says, unprovoked, arm resting on the car door. In the darkness he is nothing but a shadow of a man, almost featureless. Statuesque. Napoleon's other hand holds a speaker to his ear, but they've heard nothing but static and yawning pet dogs for the past two hours. Four more hours and Gaby would be here to relieve Napoleon's shift. These are moments spy novels like to leave from their pages. Spying isn't all explosions, or even half explosions. It's mostly, no explosions, and a lot of waiting around, listening to silence pass in an unmarked car.

"Solo?"

"You asked about the bruises."

Months ago. Missions ago, he asked about the bruises, and the welts that didn't heal with the rest of him. _Months_ ago. Napoleon only did things when he was good and ready.

"You're hardly seventeen."

He holds up a finger, "When he propositioned me, I was seventeen, and very, very poor. And skinny. God, I was skinny."

Illya catches Napoleon's eye in his reflection on the window, searching for explanation. His lips are carefully casual in a way Illya's learned not to trust. "Propositioned," he repeats, and Napoleon's eyes flick sideways at the word.

"An awful lot of money, and a place to stay. Every street whore's dream, hm?" He speaks frankly, shoulders at ease but his hand grips the speaker with white knuckles. "For a while, couple months, he was the best thing that ever happened to me. I didn't have to take other customers anymore," he laughs through the nose, "I still did, because I'm greedy. You've always been right about that, Peril. I am a product of capitalism down to the last thread."

There's something in his voice Illya doesn't like. Resignation.

"Then the shakes hit."

"Shakes." It should be a question. Illya watches the pencil in his hand, fingers steady over yellow notepad. His fingers only ever shook with anger. Loss of control. Vampire venom dulls the nervous system. Not meant for prolonged exposure.

Napoleon hums an affirmative.

A cold pit opens in Illya's stomach, the sort of heaviness that forms when he senses a mission spiraling quickly out of his control. "And the man, the one who propositioned you," again, not a question.

"Vampire."

Events falling into a story, actions gaining context.

"Then the bruises."

Napoleon meets his eyes in the glass pane. They're shadowed and tired, but at ease. Napoleon's already accepted this origin of his. Wants Illya to accept it, too. He can't fathom why. "We wear the scars we're born with."

Illya lets this settled in. He's just been told something valuable, something vulnerable, shown a sliver of something human kept hidden behind suits and charlatan smiles.

"It's not all bad. Cover stories are easier."

Illya snorts, "When your cover is a seducer, maybe," he jokes in kind and lets the moment pass with the static. This information he stores away for later, where days from now he might pick at it like an itching scab.

"I'm always the seducer," and Napoleon turns to look at him. The kiss is unexpected, quick, too short for Illya to register it as anything other than sweet. "I have a lot of practice."


	2. not a language meant for reading

They always end up in Italy. Perhaps mediterranean waves crashing into rocky shore beckon men to do the same, fists crashing into bone. Perhaps the air, heavy with salt, chiseled out a breeding ground for men like them. Napoleon does not believe in fate, but he's confident in inevitability. He's been alive long enough to know people are nothing but predictable, a live series of buttons and should you possess the proper code, create the right conditions, you can make a person do just about anything. Italy is a fixed point for him, for Gaby and for Illya.

There are worse places to end up in than expensive twenty-four hour cafes that serve excellent espresso. Illya could berate the capitalist exploitation of labor until he's blue in the face, but in the moment his expression sits loose, lit orange by the setting sun and staring out onto the ocean. It's a rare moment of peace, a lull between assignments. Napoleon shuts his eyes and waves fill the silence, conversational in their constant rhythm, white noise like the rush of blood. A familiar rhythm. Napoleon sips his coffee and thinks of other things.

"Illya." A half-familiar voice. Napoleon startles, opens his eyes just in time to see Illya do the same.

Illya walks whisper-quiet, his breath so even-tempoed that it blends into the crowd. Napoleon knows no one else capable of sneaking up on him. Except, apparently, "Oleg," Napoleon greets, schools the raise of his eyebrows into a charmed smile, "A pleasant surprise. Illya didn't tell me you were in the area."

"Because this does not involve you, vampire."

So it was that sort of conversation.

"Right," his smile goes thin, "This isn't exactly a private venue though. I thought you had better sense than that."

"Convenient, then, that I do not answer to your kind," Oleg presents a folder to Illya, an exchange so blatantly obvious it hurt. Napoleon forces his expression to remain neutral. From the ram-rod angle of Illya's back, Napoleon gathers Oleg isn't worth his time.

"Of course. Lovely seeing you again."

Oleg lays a parting hand on Illya's shoulder, dips his head and speaks in the kind of whisper that is intended to be heard, "Keep that thing on its leash, da?"

Illya says nothing and does not watch as Oleg's back disappears into the crowd.

Napoleon sighs and opens his mouth to comment, something sarcastic to make that unpleasantness less biting, but rattling silverware interrupts. Their table shakes, and only now does Napoleon notice the squeaking aluminum of their table. A glance reveals four new indents in its surface, fingers'-splay apart. "Easy, Peril."

"It does not anger you?" He asks, voice quiet and cold, "How he speaks of you. To your face ."

Over the years, Napoleon's grown to understand the rhythm of Illya's brimstone temper. He predicts by necessity, accurate as the seismograph on a volcano's peak. This is to say: Napoleon is more accurate than most. But on occasion, Illya can still surprise him. He surprises him now, angry on his behalf.

"Let's go back to our room." Wandering eyes pretend like they don't belong to straining ears, mouths hungry for gossip. He could do without the audience.

The table grates across concrete and clatters to the ground, leaving Napoleon and the crashing ocean waves, alone.

* * *

Illya paces their room. Left, five steps. Right, five steps. Each one the same distance apart. The damn ten count grates on Napoleon's ears, a half-whisper like he can't hear it plain as day. "You're making me sick watching you pace like that." Stop it. Stop being angry on my behalf.

No one's ever been angry on his behalf.

Illya growls, animal, like he's the vampire between the two of them. "You make me sick, how you take what Oleg calls you like a spineless- " he spits on the word, tries to compose himself, fails, "I know you have spine , but where is your honor ," Illya shoves him into the wall, open-palmed like a goddamn invitation.

"See there, that's where you're mistaken, Peril. I don't have any honor." Spies have no use for honor, cons even less so, and vampires none at all. Napoleon possesses pride, but that is not the same thing. He holds up his hands in apology, unsure exactly what for. He knows only that he does not want to feel Illya's hands shaking in barely contained rage, not at his expense. He's done nothing in his life deserving of it.

Again Illya growls and Napoleon shuts his eyes, bracing for impact.

Illya kisses him.

Emotion rushes past his lips, so hot Napoleon forgets how to breathe, forgets that he does not need to breathe. It is the kind of kiss Napoleon is afraid to give, all teeth, wet against his animal mouth. It is hot, and ragged, a snarling dog, and Napoleon is unsure whose air they're breathing, where his gasps end and Illya's begin. The ocean crashes outside their window, in his ears; rushing, deafening, he shoves forward. Illya fists the front of his lapel, yanks back cloth and pulls apart buttons. Lips find him in the dark, firm on his neck. He bites century-old bruises with predetermined precision.

" Fuck ," Napoleon propels them forward towards the bed, legs moving before mind. Illya stays fastened to his neck, takes control of their momentum and flips them, so that when they land it is he who remains in control, heavy on top of him. "Illya," and then again, more gasp than word, " Illya ." The pressure of his teeth eases but the hurt stays, a white throb glowing in the crook of his neck. He's hazy with it, let's the haze blanket his thoughts. The alternative is reflection, but this is not something he wants to pick apart or understand.

"Shut up," Illya hisses, hands on either side of his shoulders, pinning him as if to prevent his escape. As if there is some place Napoleon would rather be. His hips almost twitch, almost throws Illya's balance. But Napoleon does not move. Does not want to.

"Are you sure-"

"Told you to shut up." He looks down at him, his eyes the brightest point of light in their room, last vestige of twilight condensed into a man. He hurts to look at. Napoleon shuts his mouth and stares.

Illya kisses him again. They both stop talking.


	3. the worth of you

Napoleon's breath ghosts across his ear and Illya stills, fearing something tender. But thumbs, not lips, find his shoulders, digging into knotted muscle. Napoleon is gentle nor forceful, fingers carefully neutral like the rest of him. It is not the lover's kiss Illya expected. His shoulders ease, and he does not shrug Napoleon away.

"We don't usually receive assignments straight from Oleg," an observation posed like a question, feigning casual curiosity. He sounds too close. Illya tracks his every shift, unsure if it is a hunter's instinct or spy's caution that makes him do so without hardly a thought.

"Still true. Assignment is only for me."

Napoleon says nothing for several moments, fingers working thoughtfully at his neck. If he wanted, he could close his fingers tight and choke . Illya knows this. Napoleon knows this too. But his fingers only push at knots and unravel muscle with a kind of care he cannot understand. It is not the sort of touch reserved for marks, a tease that beckons response. The gestures possess no discernable purpose; touch for its own sake.

"So the assignment's not meant for us," Napoleon says us like it's a given, like they are a whole composed of three parts, and not three cogs moving in tandem because it lightens the work. Perhaps this is why the folder weighs so heavy in his lap. "Since when is the KGB so open about contacting its operatives?"

"KBG is very discreet. Oleg was not acting as KGB."

"Uh-huh."

Illya lets out a breath. Napoleon would learn this sooner or later, if not now then when Illya returned stinking of vampire and viscera. "Was acting as hunter."

Napoleon's fingers still, "Oh," and he laughs, breath circling Illya's neck to pull gooseflesh from his skin, "You know, Illya, you're so damn cordial, I forget you're here to kill me if I go off the rails." Resignation in his voice, and Illya realizes too late that Napoleon's laugh was not a laugh but sigh of resignation morphed to something less revealing. Napoleon exhibits no anger, no accusation, his fingers still loose on Illya's shoulder. He accepts this like he accepted Oleg's insults. Napoleon does too much of this, accepting. Like it's a skill and not a sacrifice. Napoleon's voice wears a mask like the one he criticizes Illya for, so obscuring that it draws attention to itself. You try too hard to feel nothing. It gives you away.

Illya chooses not to dwell on this, does not let himself wonder what Napoleon is desperately, carelessly trying to obscure. Compartmentalize the thought. Recall later when the job is done and when 4am leaves only his loudest thoughts for company. Pick apart with the grace of a hatchet, try to build meaning from the splinters left behind. Napoleon is not an enemy, but he isn't wrong. Illya is here to kill him, if it ever became necessary.

Sometimes Illya forgets this, too. "Would not actually kill you."

"Touching," he deadpans. Perhaps Illya is being too sincere, speaking a language unfamiliar to them both. Truth weighs his tongue; no one believes a liar when they speak sincerely, "Would subdue you. Americans find you too valuable."

"Now that is touching," Their value, measured in usefulness. They are allowed to take up space only for the things they do for other men. This is a language they know

"Do you ever get tired?" Napoleon asks abruptly, directing the conversation elsewhere. For a man so smug, Napoleon speaks of himself rarely.

"Why would I," he says slowly, eyes narrowing to wrap around the question.

"Spy, hunter. You're burning the candle at both ends there, Peril. I'm tired just thinking of it."

Illya can go three days without sleep without adverse effect, last a full week without food, two days without water, walk half-dead and still think straight. Exhaustion is a paltry, physical thing. "Doesn't affect my work. Besides, am ex-hunter. This is- special case."

"That's not exactly what I asked." Napoleon's right hand leaves his shoulder and takes the manilla folder from Illya's hands, a tug just insistent enough that it would not accept refusal. They don't speak of what's just happened between them. Illya hopes they never will.

"Hm," a long pause, "Several dignitaries' children missing, all surrounding Moretti… Funny how they only call you when the rich start disappearing," his tone is deliberately light, suggesting anything but humor.

"I'm in the neighborhood," Illya offers, as if Napoleon does not absolutely have a point. But it is not Illya's job to decide where he is needed. That is why men like Waverly exist. Women like Gaby. People like Oleg. Illya shifts his body, half-turning to watch Napoleon. "You know this vampire?" Moretti is an old vampire, known well enough to possess infamy, not enough to garner immunity. It is entirely possible Napoleon knows him, or knew 're walking a fine line, going after someone as well-established as Moretti. This is why they ask an ex-hunter to complete the job: plausible deniability. Illya was acting as an independent agent. Hunters and KGB treated their agents in much the same way:

Disposable.

A long pause, Napoleon's eyes scanning down the page. His left hand still works into the muscle, just forceful enough that the touch is impossible to ignore. Illya tries regardless.

"Not personally. We don't all know each other, Illya. How hurtful that you assume we do." The mirth in his voice suggests amusement, "But I know his type," and the mirth turns biting. Illya wonders, not for the first time, if it is he or Napoleon that hates vampires more. Napoleon always got like this when speaking of his kind.

"You hunters track us like animals and expect us to behave like common murderers," not an accusation, though Illya cannot shake the feeling that it should be, "But vampires like him are cons at heart, not dogs. Don't track him like a hunter. Approach Moretti like a spy" His voice takes on the quality of Oleg's rapid-fire briefings, relaying information without filtering through emotion. Only facts. Approach Moretti like spy. Illya will consider this. Later.

"This is not time to discuss strategy." Napoleon is cool and solid behind him, fingers working into muscle like it's not the first time they've touched with so much gentleness, so little excuse. Illya shrugs his shoulders, but Napoleon's fingers remain.

"Of course it is," there's a smile in his voice and Illya is not sure what to make of that, "Moretti hunts like I do," Illya tenses. "Did. Past tense, of course. I'm more discreet than this. Have more faith."

Illya's shoulders ease back into their knotted state of rest, slowly unraveling at Napoleon's touch.

"But Moretti doesn't worry about exposure like I do. He's rich, and confident he can pay you off."

Illya laughs, "A politician. I knew this already."

"Fair point," Napoleon concedes in a half-laugh. He lays the file down beside him. Lips at Illya's ear again, voice is pitched low, "He'll want you like this," he hums, playful, and Illya is certain the cadence of his voice could be weaponized , "And once he bites you, there's roughly a fiteen second window before the venom kicks in. Ten seconds in, he won't pay you any attention. That leaves a five second window of total vulnerability," Napoleon smirks at this, lips scraping in a smile on the shell of his ear. Self-satisfied. "Kill him then. Easiest job you've ever done."

How did Napoleon come to know this with such certainty? To know the math of a vampire's bite down the the very second? Illya cuts the question before it has a chance to blossom and stands, shakes Napoleon's breath from the back of his neck. "That is a terrible plan."

Napoleon shrugs, grin falling only slightly, "Better chance of success than storming him in his own mansion. You know well as I do that attacks are most effective from the inside. It's spying 101, Peril." A frown replaces his grin for but a moment before the expression falls into attention, a single raised eyebrow displaying interest and nothing more.

"This is not spy mission."

"They're not mutually exclusive. It's a solid approach," a beat, "Are you frightened?"

"No." Obvious attempt at baiting him. Illya scowls. "I won't be able to carry weapons if I approach him like-" he fumbles, catching the thought before it has time to manifest. If I approach him like a fool, like a human, like-

"Like prey?"

"Yes," the thought takes root regardless, "Like prey. Prey has no use for carrying weapon."

Napoleon stretches, unconcerned now by the way it displays his chest, his neck, the bruising old and new. He's never tried to hide the bruising. He wore them like battlescars. But this casual display settles in Illya's stomach, and he is well aware that Napoleon is dangerously approachingtrust , "Just tell him you have it."

"Not in mood for jokes."

Napoleon shakes his head, "For a hunter, you don't really understand how we think, do you? He's a vampire. Old. Thinks he can control anyone who crosses his path."

"Sounds like someone I know." Petty revenge for implying Illya is frightened.

Napoleon does not take the bait, continues pushing his approach, "Imagine, he thinks you're just a human, showing off his knife. Hold yourself like an amateur and he'll probably find it endearing. I would have, ten years ago."

Maybe not a terrible plan. However, "I see one problem." Illya is not an actor, possessing no honeypot grin or charlatan smile. He maintains a cover only long enough so that his elbow might find fragile bone, the back of a target's neck. He is as flexible as wood, fiddled to a splintering point. He could look at a man and know every way to break their bones, but paths not paved by blood and bone are foreign to him.

"You'll do fine," Napoleon says, as if reading his thoughts. It is only now that Illya notices the furrow in his brow, the tense line of his shoulders. Napoleon is not fond of this plan, and Illya condemns his own assumptions: that Napoleon was playing with him, that Napoleon wants him in this position. But they are long past the point of petty schadenfreude. Napoleon suggests this plan only because he knows it is a good one, all personal feelings discarded. Like a proper spy.

"You've had practice." Practice with a vampire at his neck. This is true. Illya swallows. "Now let's go establish a cover story for you, hm?"

* * *

"Moretti is buying property."

Illya arches a single eyebrow, "In Italy?"

Napoleon lays his own file beside the first, this one thicker than the two sheafs of paper Oleg passed on to him at the cafe. Napoleon is not a man who offers more than what's expected - he is thorough, yes, and he does not complete jobs only halfway. But neither does he overachieve, not where it does not suit him. Perhaps between the two of them, it is Napoleon who hates vampires more.

"Well, yes," he opens the file, flipping past bank statements reaching back several years, copies of property deeds, loan information, "But he's buying everywhere. Italy, the Americas, most recently he's branching into Russia."

Illya frowns. That certainly was… atypical. But useful. "I pose as realtor."

Napoleon flashes a satisfied grin, "Realtor's son, actually. Letting you get experience before taking over the family's empire."

"Authority to conduct business, not important enough to create scandal when I disappear. This is… well thought out," he sounds more surprised than he should be. They are both spies, but Napoleon is the only one thinking like it. Illya, too trapped in hunter , as if those things did not overlap by Napoleon's very existence beside him.

"I've been known to have a competent moment or two," Napoleon smiles in a way that suggests he has several. Illya cannot shake the sensation that he's somehow taken a backseat in his own mission. "You're certainly dressed the part. Your clothes even match."

Illya resists the urge to roll his eyes, only half-succeeding. The white ceiling is embossed with gold fleur-de-lis, a pattern like the brocade of Napoleon's pocket square. Illya wears no suit, nor his preferred turtleneck. Illya rubs at his forearms, feeling bare without the weight of wool on his shoulders, his neck. The collar plunges into a V, and when he leans too far, the fabric hangs off him, showing strips of clavicle and chest.

(Two round punctures in the crook of his neck, scar tissue raised and pale.)

"This won't convince him."

You're enticing a vampire, Peril. Show a little neck.

Illya cannot quiet the voice yelling he is vulnerable, he is attracting too much attention. He is walking with a target on his back. These are things this plant cultivates. It is a good plan, objectively. Subjectively, Illya longs for a knife in the dark. It is more dangerous, perhaps, but a knife in the dark involves fewer moving parts. If he fails, it is by virtue of his own skill and little else.

Napoleon follows Illya's gaze in the mirror, and Illya feels exposed all over again. "Of course it will. You need to use your appearance, not hide it. Men like Moretti… All charming smiles until the doors close. Show him you're more interested in that version of him," Napoleon grows quiet, "He won't be able to resist."

Illya swallows hard, throat tight. Whole body, tight. "Will not work. I have a scar," he touches the side of his neck, softer than intended, less indication of something physical and more a moment of memory, "Not something easy to explain.".

Napoleon's fingers hang halfway in the air between shoulder and neck. Illya wishes Napoleon would just touch him; his hesitance implies too much.

"Well, just be honest."

A laugh, tinny and tight, his throat is so tight, he does not want to speak of this. "Honesty. Very amusing."

Napoleon's hovering hand returning to his side, palm open against his thigh; the picture of composure, "A vampire bit you and you sought out another. It will intrigue him. He'll assume-" Napoleon's voice catches, and that feeling is in his stomach, a mission spiralling before it's even begun, "Well, he'll assume."

"I see." Illya decides Napoleon knows too much of this, the habits of vampires, the things they desire, the things they assume. "Still do not like this plan."

"I'll be just outside for the extraction."

Illya nods. This is the benefit of teamwork: plan Bs, a safety net. Still, he has a reputation . "Won't need it, Cowboy."

"You're welcome, Peril."

* * *

Moretti is well-established in Italy, and yet his home speaks of new money. It lacks the delicate curves and sturdy columns of traditional italian architecture. His home is composed of clean modern lines, and the interior is much the same. The westward wall is built from glass, looking out onto the garden. Manicured hedges blur into the cliffs, and it is unclear where the yard truly ends and the deadly drop begins. Dramatic, eye-catching in its simplicity. Even from inside, the crash of waves is audible, an unmistakable rhythm that fades outside consciousness unless consciously listening for their song. Illya focuses on the task at hand and offers his hand in greeting.

Moretti's hair is slicked back in a style falling just short of formal, curls disrupting the otherwise perfect line of his forehead, his perfectly manicured eyebrows. And yet Moretti does not hold himself like the vampires Illya is accustomed to. There is a measured violence to his movements, sinuous and dangerous. He moves with the confidence of a man accustomed to being the strongest in a room, both self-assured and careless. His smile makes promises Illya knows it has not intention to keep. Illya can use that.

Illya's hand hangs in the space between them. Moretti takes his own as if to shake and pulls . Illya becomes liquid, prepared to twist, turn vampire's momentum against him. Freezes, suppresses the reaction and lets Moretti's tug unbalance him into stumbling closer. The hidden knife digs uncomfortable into the flesh of his wrist. Moretti's fingers brush over the concealing fabric and smiles, lips scratching cheek as if greeting him with a kiss.

"Weapons were checked at the door." An accusation made softer with his smile, the kind sharp knife with velvet handle that Illya is accustomed to dancing with. He releases Illya's hand, and it is only through years of practice controlling his movements that Illya does not jerk away as soon as he is able. Instead, he leans back slowly, trying to summon even a modicum of the haughty confidence that Napoleon assures him will entice. "Weapons cannot hurt you, no? No threat to you."

Moretti arches an eyebrow, lips turning up in something Illya can only imagine is a smile, but his eyes betray a calculating mind. Moretti's gaze is curious, not quite malicious, lingering on the intentionally obvious knife. Illya knows he's being sized up. Eyes linger on his neck. Illya suppresses a shudder.

"I see," Moretti's smile spreads wider, genuine this time but unkind, a spider comfortable in its web. Illya's shoulders fall, relaxed by the familiarity. Despite the setting, predators are still predators. It's a comfort to be reminded. "You are correct," Moretti says at last, "How did you come to know this about me?" Moretti's voice is open, displaying interest above accusation. He did not fear exposure.

How arrogant. Illya turns his neck, showing mere indication of his scars as if to say, I know you're kind. As if to say: I welcome them.

Moretti is easy to look at, tanned skin and a cherub's bow mouth, strong dimpled jaw, watchful blue eyes. His appearance does nothing to temper how revulsion grips at the hollow of his throat. Still, Illya smiles. Compartmentalizes. Unpleasantness is a fact of life, a fact of his life. He's done more unpleasant things than cozy up to a vampire. You have killed in cold blood. Get over it, Illya Kuryakin. Do your job.

"You think yourself a dangerous man?"

You are a human showing off his knife. You are arrogant. Make him believe this. "Of course."

The vampire throws an arm around him, and Illya does not bristle, does not tense or shove away. He leans in to the touch like Illya the realtor's son would do, and smiles.

"I am also a dangerous man. Come, drink with me and we can discuss business," a smile that does not hide teeth; a performance, "And other things."

Hook, line. Moretti is too confident, too easily manipulated. Illya half prays Moretti senses his intentions, that he might attack and give Illya his excuse to fight back, discard this stupid plan. But it works exactly how intended.

Instead, he says, "I look forward to it."


	4. how rage sits in hollow of your throat

The KGB teaches its agents how to drink without growing drunk. It is the foundation of a good spy; so much of their work was done in situations like these, if not mingling amongst the parties Napoleon attended then within the walls of offices like Moretti's.

"Whiskey or vodka?" Moretti asks, standing over a short cabinet set between two large bookshelves, red mahogany. The office is more classic in style; rich wood floor and high domed ceiling, renaissance paintings on walls not facing the open balcony, looking out onto dark ocean. "Do make yourself comfortable, please. My business partners are like family."

"Vodka," he answers, because it is expected of him. A typical businessman would drink tea, desiring his faculties, but Moretti wants him drunk, and Illya is merely a businessman's son, who cares only for his own desires and not concerned with conducting good business. He sits and barely remembers to let his back relax, to not sit ramrod straight like the hunter he is pretending not to be.

Moretti sits close, deliberately close, just enough space that it would be prudish to take offense. Illya takes his drink.

"Tell me, how is dear Napoleon these days?"

Vodka sloshes in Illya's glass, nearly propelled over the edge by the sudden halt in momentum on the way to his lips. He masks his brief fumble by nearly spilling a second time, affecting the drunken side of tipsy. He is not made for this half of spy work. Napoleon plays the part of socialite; Illya is best suited for the parts that came after, the raw fist, the hard jawbone, the thrum of violence. Here his cover is nearly blown and Illya can only focus on stilling his hand.

Beside him, Moretti shakes with laughter. "Forgive me!" His hand on Illya's arm, steadying, undercurrent of lust, implication resting in the tips of his fingers, "I didn't mean to make you startle. I've been terribly distracted all night, trying to place that scent." He leans in, just shy of unnoticable, breathing through his nose, "I know his father. It almost smells like him… But not quite. Lacks a certain," he rolls his free hand in the air, filling the space with implication, "The setting must have jogged my memory."

Illya's stomach unfurls something heavy and cold. Mouth stalling, his mind falls back on what he knows. Oleg's voice like rote memory: Cover is not blown until you're certain. Learn what target knows. Adapt.

"I'm not wearing cologne," anger wrangled and forced to pitch his voice low, aiming for something sultry. Amusing, how close rage and lust sat in the hollow of his throat.

"Not that sort of smell, I'm afraid. Though you smell lovely."

Illya elects to ignore that comment, lest his hands begin to shake again. He needs to leave, to collect himself. But there is no leeway here. Illya pushes forward, "You know Napoleon?" Napoleon claimed he only knew of Moretti, no personal connection. But Moretti knows his scent, knows it even mingled with him, tang of gunpowder and metal, harsh scents. Moretti's familiarity implies an intimacy. Illya stores this information away, a mental lockbox labeled Napoleon: inconvenient truths. The knowledge fits beside the tale of how Napoleon came to this life, and Illya does not want to consider how these things overlap. Forces himself to ignore how the edges fit perfectly together.

Napoleon lied. This lie almost blows his cover. Almost cost the mission. Yet Illya's anger turns not on Solo but Moretti and his predator's grin.

Vodka drips over his fingers and only now does Illya realize the attempts to still his hand have failed. Moretti places a palm over the rim and discards his glass on the table. "You're shaking." Moretti's touch burns his vodka-flush skin; Illya's shoulders jump, and if he still held the drink his lap would be soaked with it.

His stomach stirs, revulsion thick in his throat. Moretti laughs again, "Nervous?"

Cover isn't blown. Continue with the mission. Contemplate these things later, when Moretti's blood coats his hands, when Moretti lay dead. "Eager." Illya bites, decided he's had enough of this. He turns sharply, facing Moretti again for the first time since drinks were poured. Ilya continues shaking, fingers trembling at Moretti's lapel and he pretends his imprecise grip is a result of passion and not an urge to punch out teeth. Batter Moretti's skull until his fists pull back bloody. He wants to, wants violence so badly he would throw the mission right here for a chance at momentary revenge.

Patience, he repeats, a mantra, fist loosening infinitesimally. You will kill him soon. Purpose of mission has not changed. Motivations, changed. Result, still the same. "Would like to get on with this," Illya lets his words slur into each other, makes himself appear an easy target. The knife rests snug against his wrist.

A grin splits Moretti's face, unconcerned by flash of fang, "My, you are a dangerous man." He licks his lips, shiny like twin slugs. Illya could not fake attraction much longer than this. "I enjoy dangerous things," his limbs move as though rusted but Illya forces himself closer, tilts his head enough to show neck: an invitation, coy, "I enjoy men like you."

Illya cannot help but hold his breath. It helps still the shaking, and when Moretti digs into his neck Illya does not so much as gasp. He exhales through his nose and begins the ten count, readying his weapon in anticipation of the moment Moretti loses himself. He waits.

Desiat'. Blood rushes in his ears.

Deviat'. Strange, really, how little Moretti feels like Napoleon. Spark of pain, muscles full of pins and needles, and numbness. But his chest is tight, uncomfortable, repeating danger danger danger.

Vosim. Or maybe not so strange. Napoleon, he trusts.

Sem'. Nothing's ever felt so reassuring as the handle of his knife.

Shest'. His skin shimmers, shivers, vibrates like he's hovering just an inch above his skin. Pins and needles soften into felt, rough enough to itch but soft all the same.

Piat'. His fingers slip on the handle, numb but not. His consciousness stretches down into his fingers uninterrupted. The knife's handle is solid inside his palm, and yet muscles ignore him. Panic, growing distant; there is only the nagging sensation that all is not according to plan.

Chityri. Exhaustion washes through his body, eyes sliding half-shut, muffled chorus of waves fading in and out of consciousness. The ocean is in the thrum beneath his skin, in the rush of blood, in his heavy breath.

Tri. A hand strokes down the length of his arm, gentle even as it tugs the knife from his slackened grip. It thumps dully against the carpet.

Dva. Illya cannot remember why he's counting.

Adin.


	5. memory made stark with moonlight

The garden is as Napoleon remembers: well-maintained, brimming with sweet flowers and fragrant fruit trees that blossom within days of each other. Come tomorrow the poppies would bloom, as they always chased the margarites, hazy following sweet. Napoleon swallows this fact down, but he spent too many springs here for the knowledge to simply go away. He knows it like he knows Monday follows Sunday. It has always been this way.

The gazebo is stark white in the moonlight, and the shadows play tricks. If Napoleon stares too long he sees figures in the gazebo, a familiar trio. The fangs on his neck, unfamiliar, but Decroix is here, holding his hand, a comfort as much as a vice. 'You know not to flinch, dear,' voice a familiar mimicry of concern thrown over amusement like thin gauze, like a garment meant to tantalize more than cover. 'Be still,' Decroix's fingers are bruisingly tight, gripping as if he may run at any moment, as if he wanted to run. As if he had anywhere else to go.

(It is a good life, he told himself, a mantra so familiar it lost meaning. His muscles were never so well defined, stomach never so full, not concave but dipping outward into soft belly, hair sparse but soft and dark, trailing beneath rich linen lounge clothes. Traveling the world was something he knew of only through conversation with wealthy clientele, but together he and Decroix bounce from Paris, to London, then Rome, now a villa by the sea. He goes where Decroix takes him.)

(He still tires easily, face immaculate but for sunken eyes outlined deep blue, neck aches, body aches, sluggish, shakes in the night. But this is a good life. Richer. He wants for nothing.)

'Maybe I want the hurt,' he says mildly, barely a slur to be found. Still, it was even more of a lie then than it is now; he's never enjoyed pain. But he has a sense of professional pride, and flinching because he's with a stranger is entry-level. Decroix must know it's a lie, he knows how Napoleon despises unnecessary discomfort, in that Napoleon only gladly takes what he cannot avoid. Still, the bruising grip eases to an ache, and his other hand finds the nape of Napoleon's neck, petting his hair to the rhythm of his stuttering heart. It's just tender enough that his eyes slide shut, the buzz beneath his skin growing more insistent until it's as though he's admiring the garden from above, detached from his body.

He used to find the gardens overwhelming, too sweet, sweet like Moscato gone to his head. He realizes now the gardens weren't meant for him; the air carries subtleties he couldn't have caught. High notes of geranium are bellied by jasmine, brought into sharp focus by the bed of mint growing just below the second story balcony. A breeze carries salt up the cliffs. He can pluck each scent from the air, possessing a keenness of sense he lacked the last time he meandered through the garden. Divorced from context it is the sort of place Napoleon would love to linger, someone pretty on his side, an heiress seeking relief from ennui, a new money boy seeking excitement, and guide them through the gardens the way Moretti once guided him, hand flush and cold on his back. Napoleon wonders if this is why Moretti and Decroix loved taking him here, walking under moonlight. Having him in the gazebo, tumbling in the grass. But even a bad con knows meaning exists only by virtue of context.

He keeps low to the bushes, nose to the air, cataloguing, anything to stop his mind from wandering. Stakeouts are worst when alone. Waiting on standby worse still, with nothing but your head and its rapidly spiralling construction of scenario and memory to keep you company. Illya's gun is a comfort against his ankle, something solid to focus on.

Sea air, salt, hint of petrichor; storm clouds just beyond the horizon. It seems appropriate. Rotting fish, pomegranate overripe on the bow. Wet earth, scavengers feasting on pruned leaves. Blood on the air, Illya's blood, a scent tied wholly with fight the way a whiff of forgotten perfume can call to mind memories of your first love. A scent only once tied to sacrifice, a bruised-tender thing he never allows himself to dwell on, but now he lets the memory grip him and propel him into motion.

The interior is not how he remembers, but changed to suit the times. He enters through the kitchen door, rubber soles making no sound. The kitchen table is metal now, but he sees the wooden one where Moretti had him just for laughs, where Napoleon turned clenched fist into open caress. He passes quickly to the staircase, suppressing the urge to eye new additions to art lining the wall. Here Decroix pushed him against the banister, wood digging into spine. Here Napoleon pitched growl of resentment into moan, frighteningly genuine. Here he learned lying is all about the truth-telling.

The haze of blood is stronger on the second floor, just beyond the office door. He could walk this place in his sleep. Here he sat quietly while Decroix spoke of politics, uttered names so old and out of place that Napoleon had no choice but to listen closer, ears hungry for gossip, each name a flickering match that lights this still unfamiliar people. Every society has its rules, human or no, and only when you know them can you bend them to your will. Even the living dead are a live series of buttons, easy to manipulate when you know which ones to push.

He pushes the door open, almost falling into the easy rhythm of a heist, except Illya is missing at his side and that throws him. He's grown so accustomed to having a partner, something to rely on, he doesn't know if it's a weakness or a strength. The villa's exterior speaks of a modern man but this is as Napoleon remembered; the study changed little, but for the art lining the wall. Even then they are all Renaissance, of course. He remembers the chaise lounge Moretti and Illya are occupying, its deep brown leather difficult to stain. The sight stirs nothing in him but dull disgust, like viewing the photograph of a victim wedged between pages of a police report, like pieces of a memo on collateral damage. No one stirs when he enters, body angled to make a small target of himself, as if that would matter.

Even expecting it, the smell of blood hits him like a truck, almost forcing a stumble. Illya's blood, adrenaline, a smell chanting danger danger danger , stomach-dropping and familiar. He breathes through his mouth, ignoring how each breath weighs on his tongue and sticks to his throat. Illya's eyes flicker open, sensing a change in the room. He scans, wheels turning for method of escape even now; dependable Illya. Perhaps he could have even done this on his own after all, but that isn't a chance Napoleon is willing to take, not a chance he gave Illya the option of taking.

He presses close to the walls, following shadow but Illya's gaze still finds him, confusion plain in a moment of impressive lucidity; not coherent enough to wear a mask, relief follows confusion, the sort of expression Napoleon imagines he must have wore when he saw Illya appear behind Rudi. What a terrible thing to be on this end of that stare. What a terrible thing to know you put it there.

They're approaching a full minute now. No risk of death, if Moretti is taking his time. The thought provides little comfort. Pros and cons. Cost-benefit. This plan is safer than direct confrontation. Worth putting Illya through this, and Illya would agree if their positions were reversed, surely. He puts a finger to his lips and Illya's eyes slip shut again, shoulders lined with relief. Napoleon lifts his pant leg and retrieves Illya's gun. It fits awkwardly in his hands, clearly customized for a larger hand, an extension of Illya.

Napoleon's steps make no sound, predatory. There is nothing human about the tilt of his head or narrowed focus of his gaze. Moretti raises a hand to crane Illya's head further, to dig deeper, and Napoleon could not have anticipated the way seeing Illya's neck pushed at such an angle would make his stomach lurch.

"Hello, Moretti," desperate to get him away from Illya, Napoleon falls on his silver tongue. Gives himself away, loses the element of surprised he tried so hard to cultivate with Illya as bait, but confronted by the image of Illya with neck splayed, he could not keep the words in. Gun drops from his hands as they form into fists, shaking, and Napoleon wonders if this is how Illya feels at the start of an episode, so full of rage that it has to get out .

Moretti rears his head, fangs tearing from Illya's neck, wrenching flesh apart from muscle. Their eyes meet, confusion-recognition-anger, "Napoleon." And that is all he gets out before Napoleon's fist connects, knuckles splitting open on fang. It only seems appropriate. Moretti stumbles, blood smearing down his front, dull black copper of vampire viscera blending with Illya's blood, a brighter shade of red. It's a first hit he wouldn't have got in otherwise. Moretti is as close to drunk as vampire can be, hazy on Illya's blood. Even Napoleon is buzzed with it, but he is accustomed to working beside the siren of blood on the air. He tunes it out, feels no desire, and where he might feel bloodlust edging in the corners of his mind there is only a single word, a mantra of Illya Illya Illya Illya. Guilt sets in instead of lust, but Napoleon reminds himself again that this was the only way. Moretti drunk on blood, not thinking clearly. Napoleon did not elude hunters and government alike for so long because he made a habit of overestimating his ability.

The opening of Moretti's shock is waning. Napoleon shuts off the active part of his brain with a snarl, animal sound, and slams himself into Moretti's middle. Dangerous move, no strategy, but he and Moretti both are beyond strategy. Fangs may be a quicker route but Napoleon needs this, the ache in his knucks that thrums with his breath. Fingers curl around Moretti's throat of their own accord, not meant to kill but for the pleasure of crushing. Moretti, struggling for the human need to breathe; he cannot suffocate the way Illya could, but his eyes roll back all the same, hands scrambling. Napoleon cannot feel his face, or the rest of his body, he moves as if puppeting his body from outside. But he knows he must be grinning.

"Do you remember this?" The flesh starts to give, caves, muscle folding on itself, and Napoleon has the distant thought that he is glad his back faces Illya. Moretti's only response is to mouth his name, Napoleon .

Knee connects with stomach, forcing his hand to loosen and vaulting him back. Napoleon lands with his back digging into marble banister, ocean breeze on his face and Napoleon realizes they're on the balcony overlooking fine trimmed hedges and mint. Moretti is there , forearm to his chest, holding him upright, banister cool from night air and digging into his back.

"Of course I remember," it comes out as a smiling wheeze. Damaged voicebox. Even the satisfaction from this is dull, superseded by panic, by the omnipresent smell of Illya , Illya bleeding out. Going on three minutes now. Wound should start scabbing soon, but vampire bites coagulate slowly.

Napoleon kicks out a leg, unbalancing them both. They tumble, air rushing in his ears and cushioning his back, they fall and Napoleon does not even steel himself for the ground, only snarls and says, "I wanted to kill you cleanly," his own voice a rasp, lips pulled back in snarl and yet the register is somehow still human , "But this will have to do." Even as they land, Napoleon digs his teeth into anything he can find. Moretti's drunkenness is waning, Napoleon's edge disappearing faster than he needs.

They tumble, dry earth growing muddy and wet with blood. Napoleon's own blood makes a map of his fist, red lines dripping as if writing directions on his skin. His teeth fall on Moretti and Moretti falls on him, Napoleon's teeth digging into neck, Moretti only able to reach shoulder, cutting through thick dark wool and struggling for purchase. Napoleon registers this in the abstract only, because there is blood in his mouth and all senses filters through it as if through murky water. He half-expects a shudder, some form of reaction beyond dull recognition of pain. Fear, lust, revulsion, want. Moretti is at his shoulder, on top of him, pinning him, and his body should- he should- feel something. He knows Moretti, or maybe only knew him, but it is not a stranger. He feels only the throb, far away and sickly warm, sharp and dull all at once.

The next few moments happen in reverse. The pain in his shoulder shifts into violent focus, not two needles of ache but single point of searing . He cries out, teeth tearing from flesh, blood down his chin. A body, heavy on top of him, blanketing without struggle. It's in the ensuing moments of calm, grass cool at his back, that the echoing shot finally processes. A gunshot, its echo bouncing off rocky cliff and marble pillar even now, a drumbeat heralding violence, heralding an end.

He rolls Moretti off him, ignoring how the dead weight feels wrong in the way it does not resist the push of his palm. Like Napoleon's never handled a dead body before. (Never the dead body of a man whose favorite wines he could name even now, a piece of knowledge stored in the same place he stores the mechanics of a safe. Pragmatic yet dear.)

Legs shaking, he stands, eyes scanning the trajectory of the bullet even as he knows it could have only come from Illya. Illya, who he last saw bleeding and sedated. Illya, who now half-lay on the banister they tumbled over, gun held loosely. It slips from his fingers, falls somewhere in the grass. Napoleon doesn't know where, doesn't watch it fall because he is too caught on Illya. Napoleon stumbles to just beneath the balcony, steels himself. He jumps, grabs the marble and ignores how the sudden halt of momentum wrenches his remaining good shoulder. There's a bullet lodged in the other one. He realizes this as if noticing the wound on another man.

"Illya," his voice shakes. Napoleon doesn't know why. Doesn't particularly care at the moment. Illya's neck is down to a trickle, but he's lost a lot of blood, and Napoleon cannot tell where blood loss ends and venom's apathy begins. "You with us, Peril?" He forces his voice light and almost hits the mark.

Two taps on the marble. Napoleon almost jumps. They're loud in the sudden quiet, but comforting. Napoleon takes Illya under the arm and half-drags, half-carries him back to the couch. "Nice shot." I think you saved my life.

Illya's eyes slide shut but he grunts in response. Napoleon does not bother wiping his mouth of blood as he turns to the face the bookshelves, unsure of what he's looking for. He'll know when he sees it. He's shaking, can't stop the shaking, he forces it into the shape of adrenaline, pretends he's feeling the rush of a job completed and not- anything other than that. Napoleon doesn't fool himself, but the lie is enough to let him focus.

He pulls open drawers, scarcely glances at the official-looking transcripts. What he's looking for wouldn't be neatly catalogued. Perhaps he should check the bookshelf, look for letters, journals, a signet ring, anything. Anything that spoke of Decroix. What did he care where his maker was, except that Moretti lay dead in the grass and Napoleon felt none of the satisfaction he wanted.

On the bookshelf, Napoleon's fingers brush old leather, custom bound. Handwritten pages lacking the uniformity of business correspondence. It's enough; he can't stay any longer than this. Illya is bleeding. Napoleon swallows and tucks the ledger into waistband.

"Okay," he rounds the desk and returns to Illya's side, dropping to a knee for leverage, arm coming up under Illya's, "It's time we take our leave."


	6. on the precipice of

Napoleon fights back a hiss at the full brunt of Illya's weight hastens the blood from his shoulder and soaks his shirt from black to burgundy.

"Vervain," Illya says, pulling himself up another step and pulling another hiss from Napoleon. The staff's stairway is steep, but empty, and fresh blood still soaks through Napoleon's shirt. They made do.

"That explains the burning." He leaves Illya to lean against the while while he fumbles for the key. How long has he been shaking?

"Is probably in your bloodstream now," words slurring, a glance reveals Illya's eyes staring somewhere far away. Familiar expression. Napoleon pushes the door open and drags them both inside. By all accounts he should be feeling much worse. Vervain should have him biting his lips bloody with pain. Vervain should have him still in the garden on the ground paralyzed by agony. But he scarcely feels his own body. Shoulder, the only point of sensation; he overworks the arm to feel it ache. Body, slipping from his control, hanging on the precipice of shock. The pain grounds him, carries him long enough that he can carry Illya to the couch.

"I'm going to take a shower," he announces to no one.

Illya's eyes slide shut.

* * *

Each crash of wave falls harder than the one before, audible to Napoleon even behind the bathroom door. Shower spray hitting white tile sounds much the same, both paving way for storm. He strips down listening for the crash of thunder, or a change in the pace of Illya's breath. He's not sure which. He's not sure if there's a difference.

The bullet won't go easily. The wound knit together, more scar tissue than functioning flesh. Even as Napoleon searches the bathroom for a first aid kit, he knows he'll have to tear the wound back open.

He pinches the bullet with the forceps, hissing as his skin tries to knit around the bullet. Medics often said it was safer to leave the bullet alone, but Napoleon wants no memento of this evening. Already he is burying the memory, blotting out lines of thought like a half-redacted dossier. Compartmentalize. Close the chapter. Leave loose ends and they'll fray until the whole thing comes unraveled and Napoleon is forced to remember tonight. He doesn't want t remember. The bullet has to go. He tugs, free hand sending spiderweb of cracks up the ceramic white sink, now polka-dotted red. Muscle parts. Napoleon works fast, not racing bloodless but the speed of his own body and its prognosis to heal.

Metal falls into the sink. Napoleon runs the tap hot. Vampires, not built for heat. They once chased a man to India at the height of summer and every word from Napoleon's mouth came as a complaint. Now he relishes the heat for how it makes his head fog with the mirror and beckons his eyes slip shut until his focus is narrowed down to the scalding heat on his back and not the searing throb of his shoulder twice-knitting back together.

* * *

The glass he left for Illya sits empty. Wordlessly, Napoleon takes the glass to refill, attention never leaving Illya even as he turns his back. Illya watches him, too; he lacks control of his body, but senses are the first to return. Sight and sound and smell come all at once; at first it is dizzying, so much to process. But KGB agents are trained to deal with that, aren't they? Sensory overload. Common precursor to interrogation. Illya tracks him with complete lucidity, even as the muscles of his neck remain at gravity's mercy.

Napoleon can do the same under similar circumstances, but that particular skill is an accident of circumstance. Illya's is cultivated. He returns with another glass of water, and Illya lifts a steady hand to meet him

"You look tired. How are you feeling?"

Illya grunts, "Bad. Had worse."

Outside, the first drops of storm begin to fall.

"You lied," a simple statement of fact. Napoleon pauses on his way to the door. He's hungry, and the room is thick with Illya's blood. His neck stopped bleeding but the smell still lingers, stained copper on the collar of Illya's shirt. "Sit."

And he does. He sits beside Illya; an excuse to not look him in the eye. Napoleon keeps palms his open atop his knees, back a careful slouch, broadcasting tired indifference and quieting the shake in his leg that whispered _hungry violent blood on the air I need to hunt_. His jaw squares itself into a flat line, muscle quivering. Too many emotions at once. He should sift them through and decide which could be most useful, which ones he could mold into the shape of feelings not so telling. But it's all Napoleon can do to focus on the conversation at hand.

"Well, Peril, we do that." It comes out sharper than he intended, desire for accusation jumping through his teeth. "Lie. We're liars. I'm a professional liar."

Illya considers this, takes it apart the same way he surgically takes apart all information, brutally efficient. "This is true," too simple a response; a lie of omission, and all Napoleon can glean is Illya's clipped tone. Napoleon tucks this answer beneath his serpent tongue, where he might later learn how it sits awkward in his mouth, "You are better spy than I thought."

Somehow that feels like an insult.

"I have moments of competency."

"You knew you could kill him," it's as much a statement as it is a question. It should be a question only. Illya gives him far too much credit. It feels far too much like trust.

"No," Napoleon looks down, "But I knew if I couldn't, then neither could you."

Illya sits up straight, "Then this was not your decision to make!" last word dropping into a groan, he falls back into the couch, eyes shut against the tilting room.

"See, Peril, I didn't give you a decision. I did what was _pragmatic_." There's a knife tucked beneath his tongue that he does not remember putting there, but it cuts his tender mouth to ribbons.

"You and your ulterior motives."

"I'm a-"

"Spy? No, you are a vampire. Spy would have told his partner the plan." Finally, _finally_ the accusation. "Was never plan for me to kill Moretti."

"No," he confirms only what Illya already knows. " _I_ couldn't best him in a direct attack. Little chance you could. No offense - we're different breeds."

"I am made to hunt this _breed_. Was my assignment, not yours." His jaw snaps shut, as if biting off his next words and the bite still seems too large for him to handle, jaw flexing. Napoleon knows body language, even slurred with exhaustion. He knows anger manifests first in the jaw, that the jaw is among the first set of muscles to regain control.

It is my fight. The words manifest by the shaking of Napoleon's leg, which he spares only the slightest effort to stop. "What do you want from me, Peril? Sorry I saved you from certain defeat?" Like hell he would have let Moretti take this from him, even if _this_ is sending up warning smoke. Napoleon tries to swallow only to find he cannot, throat too tight. On top of it all, he's hungry. His leg starts its shaking again. He's losing it.

"I _want_ -"

Napoleon slides from the couch, to his knees.

"Solo?"

He places a hand on Illya's thigh, and despite Illya's tightened jaw, the rest of him is still loose-limbed. For the best. Napoleon isn't sure if he could handle much movement. He's out of practice.

"What are you doing?" his voice is pitched lower than before, which tells Napoleon that he already knows the answer to his question.

"Making it up to you." Illya knows how this works. What Napoleon is good for.

Muscle manages to tense beneath his palm. "I do not want your _payment_ ," voice still low, it comes out near a snarl.

"Then call it a gift," he says evenly, remembering Illya on a different vouch, neck bared for no reason other than than Napoleon needed and Illya could give. Not a memory he allowed himself to linger on, but he wasn't above turning even this into a tool.

"There is nothing arousing about this."

Napoleon laughs. There's salt on the air. Sweat. Musk. They overwhelm the notes of petrichor blowing in from the window. Hunger burns hot beneath his skin, and it should be humid and suffocating but it all burns dry. He could choke on it.

"That's a lie," you should know better than to lie to a spy, to a whore, "I can smell it."

Illya narrows his eyes, "Was in a memory."

Rhythm of the tide, Illya's mouth of his clavicle, biting bruises as they tumble; room dark, Moretti not even a blip on their radar. Two nights ago. It seems longer.

Of their own accord, Napoleon's hands find belt buckle. "Good memory?"

Another twitch of muscle, the hips this time. Napoleon grins. He can't feel his face.

"Stop treating me like _asset_."

Napoleon does not roll his eyes, because he's focused on the belt, but it's audible when he says, "It's my job. Or have you forgotten?"

Above him, Illya gives a shuddering exhale- not shuddering. _Shaking._ Anger. "Stop this, Napoleon. I won't use you like he did."

His hands freeze over the skin-warm metal but it may as well be a brand for the way Napoleon's blood goes cold. "Excuse me?"

"Get off your knees."

"You must know, I'm comfortable on my knees," and he doesn't care that the smile hurt his face even more than craning his neck hurt his shoulder. "Tell me where you learned this sordid detail. It's not something the KGB has on file, I should hope, because then the CIA must have it on file and _my_ , that is awkward," cared even less that he couldn't stop the words from coming. Illya _knew_. "The hunters. I wouldn't put it past them to keep track of what vampires are fucking who." Since they started working together, then. And he said nothing.

"No! He knew your scent. Remembered when we moved to his office. I am also a spy. Can put things together," Illya's heartbeat nearly drowns the words, but the hunger in his veins sits frozen. "I wanted him dead. Wanted to-" an exhale that bordered on growl, "He deserved to die."

Napoleon can feel his face again. The terrible smile sags to an expression that does hurt quite so acutely. "...Yes."

"Please, get off your knees."

Sighing, he stands, hand on the couch to support his spinning head. The air still tastes of salt, of sweat, dried blood. Hunger returns to his consciousness, no longer a dry ache but a cold stab. He would take it.

"Would be best if you leave."

Dully, the smell of sweat links back to desire. The door shuts quietly behind him, and he steps out into the storm.


End file.
